Summer Dream
by Sinousine
Summary: Kiku receives a visit from a spectre from his past: himself. Is he dreaming? Is this really happening?


Like a hungry fog, the dreams come. Night after night they repeat themselves, never relenting their hold while the moon hangs in the sky.

In that faraway place, a lady on with ebony hair and piercing golden eyes rides off on a majestic white horse with her generals following her into the distant horizon.

A fisher girl on the edge of a water lily grove hauls her little boat to shore in the fading heat of a summer evening.

A forest green and breathing with the dawn's blue light, and a lone figure stands on the seashore of a beautiful island.

A young man on his peninsula, watches over his very own hermit kingdom as armored ships wait in the harbor.

A child riding in the wicker basket of a watchful older brother, small and quiet but with dreams of greatness sleeps peacefully. Black ships spewing fire, poised off the coast of his island will shatter the illusion of peace.

Imperial sword and steel.

Blood on his once pristine uniform.

A city in flames, the people trapped inside.

(he cannot tell which city. no, that is a lie. he remembers each and every one, etched into the space behind his eyes with a fine-tipped needle)

_If you try hard enough, you'll remember it all._

He wakes in a sweat, the sheets heavy and oppressive. He cannot see past the moving shadows distorting his vision, but feels the warm body lying next to him.

Arms wrapped around his waist, reassurance against his enemies and personal demons.

_ You are safe here._

In the dark, Kiku feels himself flush at the contact; he is aware of his state of undress by the way silk sheets (the doting older brother would praise the health benefits of silk as myriad) caress naked skin.

"Yao?" he asks the figure in silhouette.

"My sweet, Big Brother is not here," answers the voice; it is ice cold and paralyzes Kiku in fear.

He has heard it many times in his dreams.

"Who are you? Why are you in my bed?"

"You know who I am. I am you."

Morning floods his room, slanting through the blinds and casting white lines onto the bamboo floorboards.

Kiku shakes the spots from his vision and rises to his morning routine.

Lately, the dreams have gotten much more solid. There is a stain in the middle of the futon's pristine white sheets.

Blue, blue ocean below him, the young man watches as his fighter plane meets the steel hull of an aircraft carrier and his body disintegrates with the explosion.

He is spiralling now, out of the belly of a bomber over the city. He is everywhere and nowhere, surveying the carnage as buildings crumble and bodies fall lifeless.

He is holding a rifle in his hands, poised to shoot, shoot, shoot.

"If you try hard enough, you'll remember it all."

He wakes again, again facing the darkness, but he is alone in the room. It is not his house, yet he knows instantly where he is.

Kiku is sprawled on the floor of Yao's old house in the summer capital (the one that he set aflame years ago), and thought it is stone-cold there is little relief because his body feels hot and heavy and those feelings will not leave.

Maple smoke, he thinks. The sheets smell of that ancient perfume. Someone has left a fresh bouquet on the table adjacent the four-poster bed.

A bouquet of chrysanthemums.

Are they?

The water they sit in is a deep blood hue, and the blossoms have been stained until they are almost black.

"Stop! Stop! Please!" the voice pleads.

He is dressed in his finest military attire, black cloth and golden thread. He looks like a storybook prince but for the gleam in his eyes.

"You're no prince. You're just a bastard dog dressing up for his Western masters!"

Again, he clutches the hilt of his sword.

"I will teach you to address me with respect."

"You did this. Your fault."

The scar is still raw.

He relishes the taste of blood and tears, presses closer, feels the being underneath him tremble but never shrink from his touch.

"But you came back, you always come back," replies the voice, soft and hoarse and ready to break.

_I never left you._

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

Kiku turns around at the sound of the voice, ice-cold as ever but causing his face to flush with heat. He lets the fragrant chrysanthemum he is holding (a gift from his benefactor) fall to his lap.

There is no mistaking the figure in the black uniform. There is no mistaking that face, eternally youthful and framed in well-tended ebony hair as the day the old house with its wooden skeleton went up in flames.

There is no mistaking those eyes.

They are his own.

"It was a mistake to dress me in the black uniform. Your favorite was the white naval suit. The color of death, no? The bloodstains certainly stood out much better."

There is no answer from Kiku. His heart is pounding as the "black" Kiku moves to the foot of the bed, fingering the sheath of the imperial sword. It is a firm hand, glove, at his cheek that causes his mouth to form a wordless "o".

"Just like you," "black" Kiku breathes against his ear, taking the chrysanthemum, tying it to a lock of hair with a silk ribbon.

"Why did you dye them black?" Kiku asks.

"You know the answer." replies his mirror image.

_You are me._

On the floor of the ballroom, couples twirl, tangle, feet move to the music as heels click and skirts swish to the music of a lively jazz band. Kiku watches as the young officer in black takes his companion to the center of the dance floor.

Long black hair and graceful movements; the loveliest face in all of Shanghai looks in his direction. For the briefest of moments, honey-brown eyes and a pensive smile seem to acknowledge him before turning their attention elsewhere.

She smiles as the orchestra moves into the next song, slows its tempo but never its passion. Like a true gentleman, the officer gently leads her through the movements, revels in the way the sea-blue dress embroidered with peonies curves about a body that radiates life.

Kiku reaches out his hand, but he is a ghost, a bystander. He can no longer be part of this picture, no matter how achingly beautiful it is. The officer is the part of himself that he tossed away years and years ago, and who can say if he in his old age he is seeing it through the distorting lens of nostalgia or not?

The dance hall was destroyed more than sixty years ago. Perhaps he was above the city when the first bombs fell.  
No matter where he was, if this scene was fact or silver-screen fantasy, the officer and his sweetheart are only a flicker of candlelight in a fast receding past. 

"Please."

_Make me whole again, if only for a moment._

Hands on gold-threaded pauldrons, clasping, then unbuttoning the officers jacket move to the ornate buckle of his belt.

"No." a hand beneath his chin commands Kiku to stop. "Allow me."

Little time is given for Kiku to admire the deep maroon silk slip around his body before his double unties the sash binding it, causing the single layer of brocaded silk to fall away from his form will a gentle rustling noise.

In a single motion, the robe is pulled away from his shoulders, exposing smooth, flushed skin and toned muscle. Pale scars criss-cross every which where, making him all the more beautiful to his twin in black.

"Do you remember how you received this?" Black Kiku asks, fingers ghosting over a puckered, circular depression in the small of Kiku's back.

Cold contact causes the skin around the old wound to prickle.

"Yes."

"Do you remember how you received this one, here?" he asks again, gently kissing a patch of discolored skin on his shoulder.

"Yes," he affirms again.

"And this?" he inquires of a dark line stretching from one shoulder blade down to his ribs.

"Yes," he affirms for the third time.

With each old wound that Black Kiku lavishes attention upon, he recites the dates and names of cities flawlessly, like a textbook. It becomes harder and harder to keep back the flood of images as they come back in flashes and floods of sound and color with every spot where fingers stroke a path.

Scenes lost to history unfold, become vivid in the mind of their perpetrator and victim: Kiku Honda, the Empire of the Sun, Ni—a face, always that face haunting him.

And then he finds he cannot bear to remember, cannot untangle the date lines when those hands command him to confess.

"No. I…"

"That's enough for now," Black Kiku traces a barely visible mark on the other's inner thigh. "Now, for your reward."

Black Kiku rises from the bed, causing his other self to give a startled whimper from the loss of contact.

"Patience," he replies, pushing aside the hand clutching the sleeve of his uniform.

Neatly, with calculated movements, he stands and unbuttons the military jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and folding it upon the table adjacent the bed. Bending down, he pulls free of his heavy leather boots, all the while a pair of eyes identical to his watch. He unbuckles his belt and lets his trousers fall to the floor before setting them too upon the table. Long socks, a sleeveless undershirt, and a pair of briefs slide off with a rustle of fabric-on-skin, joining sword and standard-issue pistol on the nightstand.

Laid bare, Black Kiku is every bit as magnificent as he is clad in his officer's uniform, the very image of masculine beauty of virility. Confidence colors his slightest movement; on his face there is no blush of shame at his nakedness as he moves again to the foot of the four-poster bed, causing the other Kiku to lean forward in anticipation and maybe fear.

"Lie down," he commands, and the other submits.

Warm lips caress tan skin and at the sound and feel of breath on the nape of his neck, Kiku feels himself rise with want, want, want and his arms wrap around his ghostly but undeniably real twin as he falls backwards into the blood red bedsheets.

Arms and legs quiver as Black Kiku pushes him against the mattress, pressing his face against the other's bare chest and feeling the quickening drumbeat of Kiku's heart.

"You're trembling. Relax."

Black Kiku twists the lid of a stone jar that he has conjured from somewhere, coating the fingers of his right hand in the slippery contents. All the while he murmers sweet nothings in that soothing, soft but well-deep voice. Gently, as one would reassure a frightened child, he strokes Kiku's hair as the fingers of his hand reach between the other's legs.

Slippery, the first finger slides its way inside the narrow entrance, coating it with the sticky substance and eliciting a deep, scarlet blush from Kiku, who feels the strain and tightening as it moves around and about. He shudders when the other fingers feel around him, discovering a pair of something soft and pliant around that same place.

His guardian draws him into a kiss, deeper and warmer this time. Tangled tongues muffle his moans, although he does not mind.

By now, the hand has reached again into the medicine jar, again into the little passage. This time, the fingers are quicker, more adventurous as they spread open and loosen the tension they encounter as they slide in further, further.

"You're already wet all over," Black Kiku exclaims, like one praising an obedient student, catching the drops of forming here and , the other is covered in a sheen of sweat and is panting harder than ever, as the three fingers moving within him withdraw, leaving behind a visible trail of residue.

"I will start slowly," he continues, shifting into position as he applies another layer of the anointment, this time to himself, stroking all along the length of the little organ, feeling the tip gorge itself, smirking.

His eyes are shut as Kiku's guardian lifts him by the legs and pushes in. It comes as a surprise, although his has been anticipating this moment for many days, through the haze of his dreams (those short sessions were never sufficient, never consummating). How firm this union of flesh feels, that blend of absolute trust and intense emotion. It is electric; it delights Black Kiku to no end how the other acquiesces, relaxes, and accepts. The feeling of claiming himself and being reciprocated is beyond carnal.

Eyelids flutter as he feels Black Kiku moving deeper inside, testing unfamiliar territory and prying open the little passage. He is slow, restrained, his rocking motions unexpectedly gentle as he presses fingers to lips, imploring his ward to speak.

"How does it feel?" he asks, pausing for a moment for the other to collect his thoughts.

"Don't stop," Kiku replies.

So they continue, bolder this time, thrusts stronger and quicker as they ease into the age-old ritual of taking and giving, deeper into the dark ocean.

One could have never asked for a more handsome, comely young man for a lover as himself, he thinks, admiring the silky softness of the skin of the other's face, stroking a path down a flushed cheek and arched neck.

And how he responds! He feels the other wrap arms around his back, pulling closer so that Black Kiku is completely inside. Kiku clutches the bed sheets with a fervor he did not know he still possessed.

A sound escapes the other's throat, wordless and primal (he thinks of mountains rising from the ancient sea in swathes of steam, islands torn from their mother continent) as Black Kiku takes him without mercy. He is so close now. Flashes of white flood the darkness as his eyes squeeze shut.

A little more and...ah. Always in the end the visions of stars overhead overcomes him as he feels their bodies tauten, shake, and go limp. Right now, a little sprinkle of rain would not be unwelcome. Both of them are still panting, overcome with fatigue, enjoying each other's warmth.

He is pleased by the feeling of something wet and sticky dripping from the little entrance.

"You're not quite finished." Black Kiku notes, teasing his hand between the other's legs as he settles the two of them into a gentle embrace, encircling with strong, supple limbs.

"My, you've sprung up like a mushroom," he coos, stroking the tip and eliciting tiny, restrained yelps from the other Kiku.

Continuing to feel, the other kneads the skin sheathing the fleshy shaft, using one hand to grasp and jerk it back while tucking the fingers of the other into a willing mouth which lovingly sucks the traces of salt on each.

So close now; he could melt from the heat consuming him as the other continues to grasp, feel, never letting go until...

He finishes all to soon, feeling the quick release and the gleam of milky fluid that now coats the other's hand and falls in drops on the bed sheets.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Kiku's black hair, normally well-groomed and oiled is damp and clings to his skull as Black Kiku ventures to kiss away the last traces of tension in his fatigue-stricken limbs.

"Yes."

In the fading of the chemical rush brought on by lovemaking, he feels a little soreness inside, but not great pain as the other wraps him in the voluminous silk of the bedsheet and he drifts into sleep at last.

The primeval forest is still, the sky overhead white with overhanging clouds. Cool and fragrant breathes the underbrush. Somewhere, birds are calling and numerous insects filtter about under the myriad leaves of tall, tall trees and grace, thin bamboo shoots.

The image lingers for a moment, then waves as if a stone had been dropped into the mirror of a calm lake. He recalls holding hands, and there being two people on that path, but now his alone and...

He wakes with the sunlight filtered through the screen door and the scent of chrysanthemums lingering on his bare skin. Curious...


End file.
